Exercise Wheel

Faster

Fun Size My Foot

Wishing to treat myself last week I upgraded my beer purchase.  Instead of my usual, I sprung for Stella Artois.  It is, in my opinion, a great beer, although a tad pricey.

Here it is, a week later, and I just opened the first bottle.  As I poured it into a glass we both noticed something odd.  The bottle appeared to be small.  It was like a toy version of a bottle of beer.

We read the label and discovered it to be 11.2 ounces, instead of the standard 12 ounce size.  What a gyp.

At least you can see the size of a candy bar.  It’s a fraction of what it once was, and everyone knows the scam behind potato chip bags, but to hold back .08 ounces from every bottle and still charge the crazy price…

Well that's enough to drive a guy to drink.

But not the good stuff.

And it happens just that fast

There is a little known segment of time that exists somewhere between the anticipation of popcorn and the stench of burnt popcorn.  Although still classified as a minute – it is actually more of a quick minute.

Gravity

It has pulled on me from day one.  It has caused me to stumble and even fall.  In spite of growing and learning it has continually tugged at me.

I have not so much felt it as I have experienced it's effects.  Now, in my old age,  I can see it has had a plan this whole time.  It seems intent on pulling me completely into the earth to be with those it has already taken. 

My Great Grandparents were the first ones I knew that were pulled in.  After that, grandparents, parents, friends and an endless array of strangers are still following. 

I'm not sure I subscribe to the good and evil preached at us, but Heaven being above, yes,  the devil being below...
then perhaps maybe there is something to that.

I keep referring to gravity as it, as if gravity is just some non-threatening, generic that holds no identity, when I should be saying you.  You have brought down mighty trees and great bridges.  It's you who has pulled planes back down to earth, and not very gently I might add.

I know you could have been kinder over the years.  That line-drive I hit in the 8th grade should have easily sailed over the right field fence, but no;  you kept tugging and pulling at it the whole way.  That wasn't right.  You could have easily given me that one.

We have earthquakes whenever you flex your muscles and tidal waves each time you belch.  You have shown us we are no match for you and you can take us at any time.  Those who can afford it are signing up for rockets to take them to Mars.  Some have even sent their cars on ahead.

I am not that rich, nor so foolish as to think Mars has safe neighborhoods.  I think I'll just hang around here for awhile.  Whenever I think you're getting a little too grabby I'll fill my pockets with helium.

Good-luck getting me then.


ZC

Writer's Room (for improvement)

I use to think that in the proper setting I'd be able to write and write and write for days on end.  I would be inspired far beyond the margins, leaving concerns over grammar and punctuation behind, leaving nouns to fend for themselves, and participles dangling.

Sadly, having been here for over a week I've discovered my feet are cold.  Maybe I'll put on some socks and then sit down to write something.  Oh, you're getting a snack, maybe I'll get something too, then I'll write.

The things my mind sees when looking out at the ocean are the things mankind has always seen and that is simply an endless array of questions tumbling up on shore.  Questions of origin,  of physics, science and space.  Just contemplating the entire universe that exists within a tablespoon of sea water boggles my mind.

The realization that perhaps I haven't a writer's soul has struck me.  Maybe, at my core I am nothing more than a procrastinator,  however skilled at the art of it, a procrastinator none the less.

In light of this epiphany I still my pen and take leave of your monitor.  You have been a worthy and understanding audience and for that I thank you.

I shall utilize this time away to take stock, to more closely examine Zobostic Corwin, abilities and shortcomings alike.  As in any journey of discovery I will be sure to pack a sandwich and a refreshing beverage.  And trust me, it won't be like last time when I got all weird and signed that petition for a mandatory waiting period before you could buy a vowel.  What on earth was I thinking? and sometimes why.




Hey...
Maybe I'll take up painting.  Think about it... I could be the first artist to actually paint punctuation into his work.  I could separate furniture with commas.  I could paint a still-life, adding a dash to the Tabasco sauce label -   

I'd paint big, fluffy commas at each end of the couch.

Tide Pool

This looked much better in my head.

A Baker's Dozen

Fresh out of the oven let me say, this has nothing whatsoever to do with baking, food or recipes, nor is it some tricky math problem.  What it is, however, is the story of Lem Plopkin.  Lem is a Scandinavian born Hawaiian.  His Mother and two sisters are full blooded Hawaiians.  Lem's Father and younger brother-in-law are both Democrats.

Lem studied to become a chef at the Sorbonne, but as I have already stated this is not to be a story about food or baking so we'll leave that part of his life out.  We will pick it up just after he flunked out and landed a job as a roofer.

Lem never really had the physical agility or dexterity for heights, but once up on a rooftop Lem loved the view.  He couldn't get enough.  Even during lunch breaks Lem would stay up on the peaks to just sit and stare.  He wouldn't even climb down when the rain set in.  He somehow felt this was as close to heaven as he would ever get. 

But our story doesn't begin on a rooftop, no - far from it.  This story takes place on city bus 18.    It was a Sunday morning and, as he had done every Sunday, Lem rode the bus down to the farmer's market where he would shop for fresh fruits and vegetables for the week.  Today, however, when Lem climbed aboard and dropped his change into the box, a small red light on the top of the box came on.  Lem had never noticed the light before or if he had he’d never seen it light up.

Lem looked at the bus driver, who he expected to be Gary.  This was not Gary.  Suddenly Lem wondered if he had climbed onto the wrong bus.

"You're not Gary."  Lem announced.

The driver looked up at Lem.

"Nate, and you'll need another ten cents"

Confused and just a little concerned Lem reached into his pocket for another dime.  "Is this bus 18?"

The little red light began flashing.

"I can't move the bus until you drop your dime or two nickels into the box."

Lem quickly put another ten cents into the box.  The red light stopped flashing and then went out.

"Take your seat please." said the driver as he pulled the bus forward.

Lem stumbled a little but quickly grabbed the seat three rows back from the driver.  He still wasn't sure he'd gotten onto the right bus but for now he'd just pay attention to the stops and listen for the announcement for the farmer's market.

As the bus made its way through the city, Lem began to notice the other passengers.  None of them looked familiar and no one seemed to be smiling.  In fact, they all appeared quite grumpy.  No one was talking and none of them were looking outside.  They didn't seem to care where they were headed but were just quietly bouncing along within their own misery.

Lem was glad not to ride with this bunch every week.  He was used to people being happy, friendly.  Someone almost always had something nice to say, even if it was just good-morning, and they knew his name.  Lem hadn't recognized anyone on the bus, especially the driver.  Surely he had gotten onto the wrong bus.

To be continued